HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my line of country. Suppose you're not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a cove renowned for the ladies' friend (and he's dead certain to be on your side). What I can't get over is this: here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young 'oman like you--as a cove may say--to take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get over, Mrs. Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it. JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee'd whatever. I get naething but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just ken I've been the ruin of him! HUNT. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be open-handed and free. JEAN. Weel, sir, and he's a' that. HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told me----. Well, well, "here's the open 'and and the 'appy 'art." And how much, my dear--speaking as a family man--now, how much might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of a year? JEAN. What's your wull? HUNT. That's a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. (I should like to take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.) What's about the figure? JEAN. It's paid for. Ye can sweir to that. HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George's crown; but I don't know what it cost, and I don't know where the blunt came from to pay for it. JEAN. I'm thinking ye'll be a vera clever gentleman. HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man---- JEAN. I'll be wishin' ye a fine nicht. (_Curtsies and goes out._) SCENE IV HUNT (_solus_) HUNT. Ah! that's it, is it? "My fancy man's my 'ole delight," as we say in Bow Street. But which _is_ the fancy man? George the Dook, or William the Deacon? One or both? (_He winks solemnly._) Well, Jerry, my boy, here's your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five for that ere little two hundred you'd be a disgrace to the profession. TABLEAU III MOTHER CLARKE'S _The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: settles, spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, where AINSLIE, HAMILTON, and others are playing cards and quarrelling. In front, L. and R., smaller tables, at one of which are BRODIE and MOORE, drinking. MRS. CLARKE and women serving._ SCENE I MOORE. You've got the devil's own luck, Deacon, that's what you've got. BRODIE. Luck! Don't talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I've the devil's own judgment? Men of my stamp don't risk--they plan, Badger; they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you (and Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities before they take them). MOORE. You're artful, ain't you?